


The Coldest Blood

by lategoodbye



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Angst, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mind Games, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6850594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mind is reeling, screaming at him to lash out and either break his bonds or die trying. Instead, he gazes calmly into Hunter's green eyes and awaits his orders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coldest Blood

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This fic deals with rape and the aftermath of rape in an explicit way. It's dark but not graphic. If this bothers or triggers you please stay safe and consider not reading this. Also, please let me know if you need me to add safer tags/warnings or have any other concerns.
> 
> 2\. Spoilers for the Imperial Agent class story: Hunter's identity is considered in this fic but since Cipher at this point in the plot has no way of knowing about it I've used he/him pronouns.

“Kiss me,” Hunter whispers while the keyword is still burning its way through Cipher's thoughts, and although his mind is rebelling, he can't help himself. He leans forward and presses lips against lips in a gesture so chaste that it makes Hunter reconsider.

“No no no,” and he seems disappointed, “Do it like you mean it. It's nothing we haven't done before.”

But if Cipher could he'd take it all back: the harmless flirting when they first met in a seedy cantina on the Republic side of Nar Shaddaa – an unspoken challenge that had Hunter on his knees in an abandoned SIS safehouse not half a day later, breath hot and fingers cruel against his skin.

Now Cipher surges forward and crushes his mouth against Hunter's smirking lips, until he tastes tongue and teeth and blood. The lack of oxygen soon begins to dull his senses and he's glad for it. If he were to lose himself in Hunter's arms he'd welcome the distraction. He's already been robbed of his self-control, and Hunter has made it abundantly clear that he doesn't care for his consent.

With a gasp Hunter withdraws. He lets his forehead – skin dry and cool, dirty blond hair like silk against his cheek – rest against that of Cipher.

“You've never kissed me like that before,” he teases.

And Cipher finds that he can indulge himself in one last act of defiance.

“That's because I didn't mean it.”

“Shush, Legate.”

Cipher obeys.

“I should make you kneel this time. I should make you come without ever laying a hand on you.” Hunter's eyes shine brightly. Cipher can feel his excitement and he wishes his own becalmed heartbeat would mirror the muted terror that's preying on his mind. “But you – you'd be thinking of only me. It'd be my name on your lips.”

And all Cipher can do is wait for his command.

“So. Kneel.”

He sinks to his knees and doesn't resist the hand that runs through his hair.

“Say it. Say my name.”

“Hunter,” comes Cipher's dispassionate reply. 

Hunter's moan seeps through the cracks of his sanity. For a moment, the hand in his hair curls into a fist, then Hunter eases off. Cipher watches him, doesn't so much as blink for fear he'll miss anything crucial as Hunter turns and casually picks up his datapad from where he's left it on his desk. 

“Oh well, some of us have work to do. But by all means, don't let that stop you, Agent,” he drawls as he casually settles in a chair and crosses his legs. 

“Go on, touch yourself. Make it good.”

And when Cipher hesitates, contemplates the meaning of the words in order to somehow circumvent them: 

“Keyword: onomatophobia. Don't play coy with me. You know what I want. You've always known what I want. Enjoy yourself. Do it!”

There's a metallic click as Cipher unbuckles his belt. He unbuttons his trousers and wiggles his hips to shake off the thin fabric of his underwear. His hand feels heavy as it wraps around his flaccid length but it doesn't take long to coax it to attention and he hates himself – no, hates Hunter, hates Ardun Kothe and the SIS and the whole damned Republic – as tantalising warmth begins to pool low in his belly.

And when he comes Hunter doesn't look up until the mess he's made begins to dry on his fingers. 

“Feel better?” he asks.

“No.”

Hunter shrugs.

“Suit yourself.”

With a smile on his lips he allows him to leave. Tell no one, he says, and Cipher knows there is no point in even trying.

 

 

 

His mind is reeling, screaming at him to lash out and either break his bonds or die trying. Instead, he gazes calmly into Hunter's green eyes and awaits his orders. They're long past Ardun Kothe's 'sit down' and 'now jump, please' and 'aim your rifle.' With Hunter it's all about power. Cipher regrets the moment he opened up to him long enough to ignite the fatal spark of attraction that's fuelled their relationship ever since. Now it's too late to back down, and Hunter won't give him a choice.

“Are all Imperial spies this pretty?” Hunter's hands frame his face. In the dim light of the room they turn it this way and that, and he seems pleased as he examines Cipher like one may do with a common slave. “I mean, they must have a special program for these things. Can't let your assets go to waste.”

Cipher bristles at the words but he can't deny the truth any less than he can stop an answer from forming behind clenched teeth.

“It's a part of standard training, yes.”

“What is?”

“Distraction, flattery, seduction.”

Hunter's smile turns his insides to ash.

“Show me.”

Cipher stalls. He's getting better at this, so he tells himself. If he keeps weighing all the words, if he makes Hunter spell it out for him, maybe he'll grow bored of this game. Maybe he'll lose interest.

“Which part?”

“I won't be greedy,” he says as his fingers brush against his cheekbones, his jawline, settle on his neck. “I already know you're a distraction and very bad at flattery.”

Cipher's smile won't reach his eyes.

“That's because you've never seen my charms put to good use.”

The fight that's left within him, Hunter claims it for himself, and he twists it around and around until it's lost its purpose and no longer belongs to him.

“Oh, you wound me, Cipher. Better make it up to me. Better show me those skills of yours.”

And he should be more afraid, Cipher thinks. He should be shaking with anger, his heart should burst into a million pieces. But all the brainwashing allows for is an uncomfortable, dizzying feeling somewhere at the back of his head. He sounds calm as he speaks:

“You'll have to make me.”

It's sensible, he supposes, not to give in, even if Hunter treats his opposition not as disobedience but instead as a curiosity. His shrug is unconcerned, and his eyes are full of terrible truths.

“If that's the way you want to play it. But consider this: how is this any different than your Keeper telling you what to do?”

“If you've to ask-”

Hunter shakes his head. His touch lingers as he turns away.

“I'm not asking. I'm telling you to get on with it. Keyword: onomatophobia. Show me what you've got.”

Cipher's eyes go blank as he shrugs off his jacket and peels out of his shirt.

 

 

 

Hunter's head is resting on his chest as they lie awake in the aftermath of a night spent away from objectives and marks and assets.

“Do you remember? On Nar Shaddaa?”, he asks and his fingers draw shapes on the overheated skin of his stomach.

“You'll have to be more specific. That time you made me do things against my will?” Cipher scoffs but it's a hollow gesture, ignored so often that he sometimes wonders whether he's going about it all wrong. “Wait, that's such a common occurrence these days.” And the bitter tang of his thoughts sours the bliss of Hunter's weight in his arms. 

“Don't be like that.”

Cipher is tired, so tired of this game, yet unwilling to give it up completely. 

“What do you expect? You brainwashed me,” he tells the empty room because he's quite certain that Hunter isn't listening. 

“Did I make you join Imperial Intelligence? Did I put the keyword in your head?”

Cipher feels his loyalties constrict in his throat like a noose around his neck. Keyword – it's enough to make his brain squirm in his skull, and he flinches, fingernails digging painfully into the palms of his hands as Hunter's soft touch ghosts over his chest.

“No,” he swallows but the feeling of dread won't go away so easily these days. “You're merely using it, of course.”

Hunter's smirk feels hot against his skin.

“It's nothing you can't handle.” He twists in his embrace to look up at him. His green eyes capture Cipher's gaze effortlessly, and Cipher is mesmerised, wonders how much of his unfortunate infatuation is part of his conditioning. The keyword built this prison for him but he himself is the one who's gilded its bars. “Why else would you be here?”

Cipher won't answer him, and it's enough of a truth to keep his thoughts from self-destructing.

 

 

 

Cipher is straddling Hunter's lap. There's a pleasant buzz in his head that has nothing to do with keywords and allegiances. His smile is lazy as he runs his fingers through strands of dirty blond.

“Enjoying yourself?” Hunter asks, that velvet voice of his eats at every fibre of Cipher's being, and it spits out bad habits and a knack for self-destruction.

“Might as well,” he drawls, and he rolls his hips, fully counting on the fact that Hunter will interpret it as the invitation that it's meant to be.

“You're really something, Cipher.”

His clever fingers begin teasing him through the thin fabric of his trousers.

“I'm what you made me,” Cipher replies quietly, attentively, open to suggestion.

But Hunter shakes his head. His arms wrap around his waist and pull him closer. His words sound like an often-repeated mantra and this time they almost have him convinced. 

“No, no one made us. You and me, we're just too caught up in the game.”

“No way out.” Cipher is careful not to phrase it like a question. He doesn't want an answer. He wants oblivion. 

If he won't find it Hunter's embrace then the ryll will have to do.

 

 

 

In the privacy of his personal quarters aboard the Phantom Cipher's holoprojector flickers to life.

“Did you miss me?”

Despite the ghostly blue tint of he hologram Hunter looks the same as ever. The language of his body speaks of confidence and purpose. His smile is a distraction Cipher can no longer afford. 

“Not particularly.”

He isn't lying but the truth of his simple reply is betrayed by the tremor in his voice. No longer held in check by the keyword he can feel his heart pulse in his temples, almost like it's trying frantically to keep up with his racing thoughts. He props himself up on shaky elbows, lets his feet dangle off his bed. He's under no illusion that Hunter doesn't know what he's going through. He might not understand it, might even consider it a weakness, but he isn't stupid. Why else would he contact him if not to continue their little game?

“You got rid of Ardun Kothe.” Hunter sounds impressed. “I didn't think you had it in you.”

Cipher no longer needs his approval to keep his sanity.

“And you're next, Hunter.”

Hunter takes his threat in stride. 

“Ah, don't make promises you can't keep.”

And the way he looks at him, his wandering gaze full of playful longing and that ever-present hint of envy that's tainting his every gesture makes Cipher's skin crawl. 

“Is this a social call or have you bypassed my security to offer me further insights into your depraved mind?”

“You know I like it when you talk dirty.” Then, after a meaningful pause that's quite unlike the Hunter he knows: “Why can't I have it both ways?”

“You never did know when to quit.”

Hunter's laugh sends a shiver down his spine, and suddenly Cipher remembers things he'd rather forget now that he's finally free to make his own choice.

“It's true. The question is, do you?”

Hunter's voice echoes through his brain, its effect just as palpable on his body as his brainwashing used to be. Cipher tenses, and he's furious with how predictable he has become. 

“Ship, end transmission.”

The holo-message cuts off abruptly and leaves him feeling worn-out and vulnerable and full of self-loathing.

 

 

 

“Don't you wish we were back on Nar Shaddaa?” Hunter asks, voice low and short of breath. “Those were the days. Hunter and Cipher Nine against-”

“Stop talking.”

Cipher won't look at Hunter's holo, and he refuses to close his eyes for fear of unwanted memories so he stares up at the panelled ceiling and seeks solace in its even, standard Imperial-grey. He's on his bed, knees bent, legs spread, trousers pooled around his thighs.

And whatever Hunter's doing on the other end of their secure transmission, he doesn't want to see. None of this is for his benefit.

“You don't even know, do you?”

Cipher stifles a moan. He isn't enjoying this. This is payback, penance, an itch that needs scratched. 

“The things you do to me?”

“I couldn't care less about you,” Cipher gasps as the rhythm of his hand grows more frantic than ever. 

Hunter chuckles, a familiar sound that sends shivers down his spine. Toes curl inside his tactical heavy-duty boots. One gloved hand digs into the crisp sheets underneath, and he straightens his shoulders, bares his throat until the fabric of his shirt stretches tightly across his chest.

“You always know just what to say.” A subtle moan; a pause. “I like that about you the most.”

“Funny. Here I thought you only liked me for my keyword.” Cipher's hand stills until after the sparsely furnished room has swallowed his words. He can't bear the thought of the terrible thing that now lies dormant in the recesses of his mind.

“Would we be here if I did?” comes Hunter's reply. Now more than ever he's unreadable to him: his truth and his lies, they all mingle behind a smile that is haunting him even now when he's supposed to be the one on top of things.

“It doesn't make much of a difference to me.”

A breathless laugh. 

“I can see that.”

Cipher scowls at the ceiling. He considers several ways out of this – cutting the transmission, reaching out to his crew, sampling the secret stash of spice in his locker – but they all reek of defeat and he needs to be in control, at least this once. 

“Look at me,” lures that mesmerising, that familiar voice.

Cipher makes a choice. He turns his head, faces the ghostly blue projection of his dearest enemy.

“You are magnificent,” Hunter whispers. Legs spread, fly undone, he sits sprawled on a chair, one hand rubbing himself beneath the constraints of his trousers.

Cipher tunes out the white noise that is his penchant for pointless small-talk. He watches Hunter through heavy-lidded eyes as his fingers curl around the base of his erection. The pressure is unbearable. It's enough to make him come, and he rolls his hips, rides out each wave of pleasure as it assaults his senses.

No one has touched his mind, no one has hi-jacked his actions to bring him here.

His fingers are sticky and so are his thoughts but he's done feeling guilty and he's done being a catalyst in another's plan.

“I can see it in you,” Hunter remarks later but it matters little to Cipher Nine. He listens as he would to one of Keeper's debriefs. All of what's happened is now behind him. “You truly believe yourself to be free.”

There's a familiar itch at the back of his head that's hard to ignore.

And Hunter smiles.

“Keep up the illusion. It's what makes you so alluring.”


End file.
